Ultimately, the reporters would all ask me the same question—how did I know?
The worst part was that I couldn’t give credit where credit was due. Not that Julian Byrd would care one lick. Anonymity is the hacker’s code, he was always fond of telling me.
How did I know?
“A little birdie told me” was all I’d say.
Then I wouldn’t say anything more.
Chapter 109
“WHERE ARE you taking me?” asked Tracy.
We were in the backseat of a cab heading across Central Park to the Upper East Side. Tracy didn’t recognize the address I gave the driver, nor should he have.
“You’ll see,” I said.
Earlier that morning I was far less coy with the mayor and his chief of staff. Edso Deacon, Beau Livingston, and I had a cozy little breakfast at City Hall. Deacon had eggs, Livingston had oatmeal, and I had all the leverage in the world.
Figuring out what Timitz had on Judge Kingsman and the mayor was as easy as following the money. It always is.
Kingsman wasn’t crooked. It was more like bent. He was so blinded by his history with Deacon, the bond they shared, that he was willing to grant a mistrial in a case involving criminal negligence on a construction site operated by Deacon during his commercial real estate days. In return, Deacon—through a PAC and a couple of shell companies—essentially bankrolled two of Kingsman’s reelection campaigns to the New York State Supreme Court.
Of course, it would’ve probably taken me months to piece all that together. Thanks to Timitz, it only took three days—UPS three-day shipping, to be exact. In keeping with the Dealer’s knack for sending packages, I received all his evidence—timed perfectly, or so he had planned—after the mayor was supposed to have died at Citi Field.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Deacon.
“The same thing you’re going to do with whatever you dug up on me,” I said. “Nothing.”
Some people would argue that I had a civic duty to go public with the information. It’s a fair argument. The problem is that life sometimes makes you choose between the lesser of two evils. Simply put, the people who would benefit from knowing my role in the CIA during my supposed fellowship at the University of Cambridge would make Deacon and company look like choirboys.
But that’s a story or two for another time.
“Anything else?” asked the mayor.
He was all but assured reelection, thanks to his surviving an assassination attempt, provided that the motives for the attempt never saw the light of day. He was doing everything in his power to make sure they didn’t.
“Yes—one more thing,” I said. “You’re now going to tell me what Elizabeth had the integrity to keep to herself. Why did you originally have her transferred to your security detail?”
Life can often be messy and mystifying. As when an attractive young detective gets what looks like a promotion only to discover that she was assigned to the mayor in order to provide cover for an affair he was having. She could quit or go to the press, but either action would mean that she wouldn’t get to do what she always wanted to do: serve and protect. So she stayed quiet, convinced ultimately that all the people she’d be able to help over time were far more important than one politician who couldn’t keep it in his pants.
She was right.
The cabdriver pulled up to the brownstone on East 74th Street. I paid the fare as Tracy stepped out, still without a clue as to why we were there.
We walked up the steps, and I rang the doorbell. Seconds later, the door opened.
“Right on time,” said Barbara Nash. “C’mon in.”
The head of the Gateway Adoption Agency welcomed us into her home, a pair of golden retrievers with red bandannas around their necks happily greeting us right behind her. Behind them was Ms. Peckler. In her hand was an iced tea instead of a clipboard.
“I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot,” she said. “I’m sorry about that.”
Epilogue
Special Delivery
Chapter 110
A FEW weeks before the big day, I thought I had a good idea how we would decide on her name.
First we would each write down our ten favorites. Then we would exchange lists to see if there was a name that both of us had chosen.
“What do you think?” I asked, pouring Tracy and myself some more coffee. I even brought two pens and a couple of sheets of paper with me to the kitchen table. “It makes sense, right?”
Tracy gave me the Look. Only this time, it felt a little different. There was a smile hiding behind it.
“I’ve got a better idea,” he said.
Tracy grabbed a pen, quickly scribbling something before handing the paper back to me. He’d written only one name. Annabelle.
My mother’s name.
Annabelle McKay-Reinhart arrived safely at JFK airport, greeting us with a pair of big, beautiful hazel eyes and an extended yawn. It’s a long trip for anyone from South Africa, let alone a two-month-old.
There were a few more papers to read and sign, which Barbara Nash took us through while Tracy and I took turns holding Annabelle. We did our best to pay attention, although at times all we could hear was the sound of our pounding hearts. We were awestruck and overwhelmed.
The escort from Gateway’s affiliate in Germany, an angel of a woman, handed us a large envelope containing Annabelle’s medical records, her birth certificate, information about the formula she was on, and a picture of her birth mother, as we requested. The envelope was red.
Who said red’s never good?
“You have a beautiful and healthy baby girl. Congratulations,” said the escort. “And if I do say so, she’s quite the flirt, too. On the second leg of the flight, from Frankfurt, your daughter had a gentleman sitting next to us gushing over her the entire time.”
“Did you hear that?” said Tracy. “Our daughter.”
Yeah—life can be messy and mystifying, all right. But every once in a while you get a day that seems to make sense of it all.
Those are the days you remember most.
The days you cherish.
The days you hold in your arms with all the love that you could possibly have in your heart.
Isn’t that right, Annabelle?
The Store doesn’t just want your money—it wants
your soul.
For an excerpt, turn the page.
I CAN’T stop running. Not now. Not ever.
I think the police are following me. Unless they’re not.
That’s the crazy part. I’m just not sure.
Maybe somebody recognized me…
My picture’s been all over. I bet someone called the NYPD and said, “There’s a crazy guy, about forty-five years old, stumbling around SoHo. On Prince Street. Wild-man eyes. You’d better get him before he hurts himself.”
They always say that—“before he hurts himself.” Like they care.